


Etiquette

by quicksparrows



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksparrows/pseuds/quicksparrows
Summary: Dorothea has taken an odd pleasure in flustering Ferdinand, and when she discovers he's a virgin, she knows how to up the ante: sit on his lap!





	Etiquette

**Author's Note:**

> For [Emmy](https://twitter.com/chickenbabby), as always.

If Dorothea's being honest with herself, she has started to take an odd pleasure in being mean to Ferdinand.

There isn't really a justification for it, per say. In fact, she knows she's being mean, and maybe sometimes it crosses a boundary into cruelty. But oh, isn't it cute to see his face? He's so earnest, so sweet –– what she thinks is being mean seems to bounce right off him. He's almost relentlessly nice, meeting everything she says with a redoubled determination to prove to her how understanding he is.

Every time he greets her with a smile, she knows she has to dig a little harder.

Unfortunately for her, the only way past that smile she's found is to just fluster him. Forget calling him a snob, or pretentious, or elitist, or arrogant. Forget poking at his charmed life, his well-groomed hair, his expensive riding boots or his rare teas. Forget all of that. All of it.

She just has to fluster him.

At first, it's easy. She does it by accident, bending over to pick up something and realizing he's gotten a view right down her camisole. Or another time, he helps her off her horse after a riding class –– she flashes him her panties when she moves her right leg over to the left side of the horse, and when she slides down and he catches her by the waist, her skirt flies right up again in a perfect double-hit. He goes red every time, sweat collecting on his forehead, but he doesn't skip a beat: "Miss Dorothea! I think you'd find riding more comfortable if you wore trousers..."

Cue awkward laugh.

She'd needed to up the ante a little bit. Him catching her hooking up with a knight in a quiet corner of the cathedral didn't count, as she hadn't planned for that.

She has to go bigger.

Dorothea happens on an opportunity when she finds him in one of the lounges. He is perfectly relaxed, reclined on a chaise lounge with a small book in one hand. From the doorway, she watches him read a page or two; when he reads, his expression changes subtly, sometimes nodding curtly, sometimes raising his eyebrows a little in silent commentary of the text. The sun beams in from the window behind him, and the breeze is soft in the drapes. It takes him a moment to notice her watching, and then he lowers the book and beams her with a smile.

"Dorothea!" he says, all cheer. "Have you come to do some studying too?"

"Not really," she says, breezing over to him. She stands over him and peers at his book. "What are you reading?"

"A treatise on etiquette," he says. "Lorenz lent it to me. Of course, much of what is written here is already known to me, as I was tutored in it from a young age, but I feel a refresher is handy once in a while."

"Sounds fascinating," Dorothea says, though her tone says it almost certainly is not.

"You think so?" Ferdinand says, a little surprised. He looks happy. He beams up at her, his warm eyes sparkling. "Come! Sit here. We can go over it together."

He pats the space next to him, but Dorothea pays it little mind. He's given her a better opening than she could have dreamed of.

Without further ado, Dorothea sits on him. Ferdinand scrambles to move –– surely she had enough space already? –– but he is too late. Dorothea descends upon him, somewhat gracelessly at that, depositing herself in his lap. Ferdinand makes a small shocked noise that she feels vibrate through his chest. Maybe that's his heartbeat, too.

“Oh,” he says, awkwardly. "I suppose... that is fine..." A long pause. "Dorothea, you are aware that your skirt is...”

Dorothea realizes it too. She has a habit of smoothing her skirt over her bottom whenever she sits down for dinner or lecture (lest her mostly-bare derriere touch a seat that countless filthy knights, nobles and boys have sat on) but it's a little hard to do when sitting on a lap. To make matters worse, not only is she not on his knee, she is on his lap proper, and her betrayer skirt offers her no shield between the crotch of his trousers and her skimpy little panties.

Ferdinand is flushed in the cheeks. He looks nervous, like he's overstepped. That alone would have been fine, but Dorothea feels his cock rapidly hardening against the soft underside of her thigh. Well, she didn't account for that, she supposes, but she can't bear to make a fool of herself by scrambling off of him, so she's left with only one option.

She has to double down.

Dorothea settles in, leaning back against him at an angle so she can still look at him. He is warm, even though his fine trousers, and all she can do is smile and say:

“Ferdie, you have a girl sitting in your lap. Trust me. It’s up for a_ reason_.”

"What is the reason?" he asks, dubiously.

"Tell me about your book," she says.

(She hates that fucking book. She hates all the books like that, ones talking about women this, women that, setting out all these rules for what a woman can or can't do, all the while not acknowledging that the rules for women are grounded entirely in class. Even if she walked with a book on her head, used her forks in the right order and bowed with slow, measured dignity, it still wouldn't make a single rat in the entire nobility think of her as anything more than a gold digger.

But she's sure she can make a point about the book without _saying_ that.)

"Ah," Ferdinand says. He seems to pull himself together a little more at that, but the growing bulge in his pants doesn't abate one bit. He rapidly scans the page, trying to find out where he left off, and Dorothea just lets him get the most of that mental panic. Finally, he seems to find what he's looking for.

He reads:

"_Double-entendre is detestable in a woman, especially when perpetrated in the presence of men; no man of taste can respect a woman who is guilty of it: though it may create a laugh, it will inevitable excite also disgust in the minds of all whose good opinions are worth acquiring. The most obvious mark of good breeding and good taste is sensitive regard for the feelings of others._"

Dorothea gives him a pointed look.

"You don't like double-entendres, Ferdie?" she asks.

"I do not dislike them," Ferdinand replies. "But I would not call it appropriate..."

"Do you think it's inappropriate for me to be sitting on your lap?" she asks. She shifts very slightly; just enough to drive her presence home.

His face grows even pinker.

"Well, yes," he says. "A proper lady is not even supposed to hold the arms of two gentlemen at once, and here you are sitting on my lap... it is very inappropriate, actually."

"Why don't you shove me off, then?"

This question seems to puzzle Ferdinand, the type of man who could not possibly dream of shoving a girl, let alone shoving a girl to the floor.

"That wouldn't be very kind," he says. "Especially when you could simply get up..."

"I could," Dorothea agrees, but she does no such thing. Instead, she tilts her face a little closer to his, and she feels his breath coming a little harder. "But don't you like having me here? You can admit it. There's nothing wrong with it."

Ferdinand hesitates. He must be hard as a rock underneath her, his cock is pressing into the underside of her thigh so insistently that she can't help but lean into him a little more. Slowly, Ferdinand lowers the book. 

"I do," he says, carefully. 

"Even though it's not appropriate?" she asks. 

"Ah," he says. Ferdinand is honest to a fault, Dorothea knows that, and yet she likes seeing him struggle to withhold it. She raises an eyebrow at him, itching for him to respond, and he says: "It's not appropriate, but I do like it..." 

“You’ve really never been with someone before, have you, Ferdie?” Dorothea asks. She leans back against him, craning her neck to gaze at his pink cheeks and nervous smile. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and so she takes them and moves them to her thighs. Her bare thighs, just below the hem of her skirt. “Not even a little bit.”

“Well, no,” he says. He ponders it a beat, cheeks growing pinker. “I.... I suppose the right opportunity has never really come by... or any opportunity, really.”

“Have you ever seen a girl naked?” Dorothea asks, curiously.

Ferdinand swallows his breath.

“I suppose I saw some illustrations... there was a very crude booklet being passed around amongst the boys here, and I happened to glimpse it, but...” he shakes his head. “No, Dorothea. I have never seen a girl naked.”

Dorothea ponders this poor, sheltered man and his instant erection upon the slightest contact with a woman's backside and she feels a rush of something she didn't expect, layered thinly over her mounting desire to corrupt this stupid nobleman and show him how to live a little. How to escape the ridiculous confines of a priggish _noble_ society, how to thrive. Under five thousand stupid books about etiquette, finely-spun and tailored wool trousers that cost hundreds of gold, and an ludicrous amount of hours spent manicuring his eyebrows, Ferdinand is a man who cannot control his raging erection.

She wonders if he can even jerk off without feeling guilt about propriety.

"Would you like to?" she asks.

"Would I like to see a girl naked?" Ferdinand repeats. It's either a trap or a dream. He is so red she thinks his head is going to burst.

Dorothea cuddles in even closer, his lips inches from his.

"Would you like to see me naked?"

"I..." Ferdinand's mind seems to blank. Something clicks and he grows more flustered, his voice rising out of the shock: "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because it's fun," she replies. "Does your little book say anything about having fun?"

"Nothing about_ this_," Ferdinand replies, a little insistently. "Please –– I thought you hated me."

Dorothea pauses. She does hate him, and she's relatively sure of that. If she's being honest with herself, does she really have any business feeling up men who obviously hate her? Probably not. But sitting on him, feeling him under her, wanting her –– there's something about him she wants, too, even if she shouldn't. Knowing he's powerless under her is about as powerful as it gets when you're sitting on the lap of a man who obviously wants you despite thinking you're a gutter rat.

She bumps the tip of her nose against his.

"Alright, then you don't get to see me naked," she says, and then she shifts on his lap so he can't see her face. "Since it's so inappropriate and all. You don't even get to look at me."

"But you're still going to sit on my lap?" he inquires, perplexed.

"Yes," she says. She reaches for his hands to readjust them; it almost takes effort to pry his palms from her thighs, like he'd gotten too used to holding them. "You'll just touch me instead."

Something in his pea-sized noble brain seems to click.

"How?" he asks. "You will have to show me." 

She supposes she can't be surprised that he doesn't know his way around a woman's body, but she sighs anyway. She tucks her face into the crook of his neck –– it's not the most comfortable position, laying with her back against his chest, his cock protruding between her ass cheeks, neck craned to look at him, but it'll have to do. She gets a foot up on the coffee table for balance and he settles back into the chaise lounge, pinned there by the length of her body.

She moves one of his hands to her breasts. 

"Just feel," she orders.

He gropes her, hesitantly at first, his hands scarcely rumpling the crisp wool of her uniform jacket, and then he grows bolder, letting his fingers dig in a little, pushing her breasts gently up and letting them weigh back down in his palms. She nips in to undo the hooks on the front and lets it fall open, and it is Ferdinand who is bold enough to move in and touch her with just her camisole between their skin. Not bad, Dorothea thinks, for a beginner, anyway.

"I am surprised," he says. His breath sounds a little shaky. "They're... soft..." 

Dorothea pulls down her top, lettings her breasts free. Ferdinand hesitates here –– it's almost cute that he thinks he's allowed to touch her with a scanty camisole on but not her bare skin –– but then his broad palm meets her flesh and he kneads her breasts and Dorothea finds herself leveraging herself against the coffee table with her foot so she can press back against him. He looks down at her as he palms her and she gazes up at him. There's something delightful about watching his lips part, and his eyes flutter shut as he focuses on the sensation, the _feel_ of her heavy breasts in his hands––

She isn't sure why, but she reaches up and pulls his face down to hers to kiss him.

Maybe, at least, he has _kissed_ a girl, or maybe he's just got so much practice wagging that tongue that he falls into it naturally –– his lips tug against hers and she presses up and into it, and when he opens his mouth she kisses him even deeper. He catches on quick, much quicker than she expected, and Dorothea feels that much more compelled to push his buttons. She reaches and stills him. He withdraws a little, concerned:

"Too much?'

"Not enough," she replies.

She directs his hand down. This time, he resists a little, almost nervous, but Dorothea doesn't let him linger. She pulls up her own skirt, legs spread across his, and makes him cup her vulva through her panties. He lets out a soft, yielding sigh as he does, as though he had expected to get burned but instead found it simply inviting. Dorothea smiles. Ferdinand chuckles, a little nervously.

  
"You move with such direct passion," he tells her. "I do not know if I can keep up."

"Then try harder," Dorothea says, pushing against the table so she can grind back against his cock. Ferdinand makes a sound –– delighted, desperate, helpless –– it pops off his lips like nothing, and she guides his hand to stroke her.

"I must admit I am confused," he says, "But..."

But nothing. Dorothea keeps grinding back against him, both to rub down on him and to keep his hand moving at some sort of tempo she likes. His fingers stay politely on the outside of her underwear, but this kind of touch feels alarmingly new to her, too. How many times has she been with guys who just jam their fingers around like they're digging for treasure? How many times has some idiot tugged aside her panties and mashed sloppy circles around her clit and balked when she pushed them off? How many dumb men have whispered in her ear, telling her to come, like twenty seconds of their pawing her could possibly get her off?

Ferdinand touches her delicately, like she is made of something finer than she is. He rubs up and down, almost experimentally, almost too distracted to do better.

She can admit it. She likes seeing his face completely lost in some new feeling, something different than his own hand. So lost he doesn't even seem aware that they're in public, or someone could walk in at any moment. She likes knowing she can do that to him. She likes knowing she's his first, and knowing Ferdinand, that he'll always be grateful for it.

But Dorothea finds herself breathing a little heavily, too. It's not like he's doing anything special for her –– she's had way better hands up her skirt, too –– but there's something about it that feels different.

Ferdinand moans and then stops abruptly, as if shocked. Dorothea sees it pass over his face, at first stunned, then a creeping touch of shame. He stops and looks at her sheepishly.

"I..."

"Did you come in your pants?" she asks.

"Ah..." He goes furiously red. "Yes... I did..."

Dorothea sighs.

"Well," she says. She gets to her feet, shucking off his hands and smoothing down her skirt. Breasts still out, jacket askew, hair now mussed, she looks down at him and says: "Now I can really tell you've never been with a girl before. You didn't even get your pants off."

She looks down at his crotch. The dark fabric is already blooming with a wet spot. She starts latching up her jacket.

"You should work on that," she tells him. "If you do, maybe next time I'll be nice and let you look at me."

Ferdinand stares up at her, face still flushed.

"Dorothea," he says, stunned. "I... I would like that very much. But next time, perhaps..."

"Perhaps what?"

Dorothea looks down at him still, and for a moment, he doesn't reply. She feels bad, suddenly, even a little guilty. She shouldn't –– she didn't get off, and even if there likely wasn't a chance of that in the beginning, she should still get to hold that against him –– but she does. He looks so elated, but so confused. He looks up at her like he's waiting for her to come back, to sit on his lap again and let him keep going.

He outstretches a hand like he's offering to sit her back down.

"What about you?" he asks.

"Me?" Dorothea replies.

"Well, I suppose the noble thing to do is make sure you, ah... come... as well."

She looks at his hand and shakes her head.

"No need, Ferdie," she says. "I already had my fun."

"Oh," he says. "Well... can I take you to dinner, at least?"

Dorothea is already halfway to the door, and she pauses then, out of arm's reach.

"That's very sweet of you," she says. "But don't feel obligated, or like you have to because of your little etiquette book."

Ferdinand chuckles, suddenly.

"It is never an obligation, Dorothea," he says. "I simply wish to."

Dorothea feels tempted to run, but gazing back at his expression, he just looks so pleased, so shy, so... earnest. He rises to his feet, standing a little awkwardly because of his trouser situation, and he holds out a hand to her again.

"Please," he bids her.

"Okay," she concedes. "But just this once. And..."

She gestures at the crotch of his trousers.

"You have to change first."


End file.
